


The Duckling Variations

by kaydeefalls



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-30
Updated: 2007-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:30:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaydeefalls/pseuds/kaydeefalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein are several interviews, an assortment of exotic accents, a lamentable lack of political correctness, and Wilson fears for the future of the medical world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Duckling Variations

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to msilverstar and jimmyrabbite for the beta.

Monday's interview apologizes profusely for being only five minutes early instead of fifteen, and it only goes downhill from there. Wilson is frankly shocked and appalled that someone with such a fetish for formality ever sent House their CV, and gives himself a good mental smack for not filtering this one out long before the interview stage. The poor boy is given a thorough ego beating, and Wilson cringes in his chair and wonders how long it will take for House to turn on him as well.

By the time the bewildered and terrified applicant slinks out the door, however, House is in astonishingly high spirits. "It's nowhere near as stimulating when they don't even put up a token resistance," House remarks cheerfully, "but by God, is it ever fun."

Wilson sighs. "You were the sort of child who tortured kittens just to hear them screech, weren't you?"

"Never," House declares. "I adored cats. Independent, proud, obnoxious little shits, every last one of them. I _bonded_ with the kittens." He grins, somewhat frighteningly. "I did, however, kick puppies."

Wilson shakes his head wearily. "I have no idea how we ever got that guy's CV. What a waste of time."

"But mo-om," House whines, "I _like_ the squeaky toys. They're so much fun to play with."

"Think of the children," Wilson mutters.

"Can I have a punching bag, instead?"

Wilson raises an eyebrow. "You _like_ wasting your time on idiots now? I'll make a note. I thought you were going to ream me out for letting this one past the front door."

"Nah," House says, waving his hand benevolently. "It's good to get the morons out of the way early on. I got to poke the stupid, the moron got his soul crushed a bit, you got to learn your lesson. Everyone wins." House frowns, suddenly thoughtful. "You _have_ learned a very important lesson about the people you can invite into this room, haven't you, Jimmy?"

Wilson rubs the bridge of his nose, mentally reviewing the large stack of CVs he'd sorted through for House's new batch of Fellows. It's going to be a long week.

Tuesday's interview is a statuesque Nordic blonde with an accent wet dreams are made of and ample curves poorly restrained by the sort of vest-suit-thing that never worked this spectacularly for Cameron. House doesn't even try to intimidate her, and Wilson is forced to do most of the actual interviewing in the hopes of distracting her from the fact that her potential employer is probably getting drool on her resume.

When she eventually gets up and turns to leave the office, the view is magnificent.

"If you don't hire her," Wilson says fervently, "_I_ will."

"Fraternizing with the help again, Wilson?" House remarks, but his voice is rather hoarser than usual, and he's still watching the interviewee's retreat in something of a daze.

"I don't need to fraternize," Wilson says. "I'm happy just looking."

House shakes his head. "And you wonder why your wives keep leaving you. Well, you can hire her if you want, although I don't know how much use you'll get out of a rheumatologist. Come to think of it, I don't know how much use _I'd_ get out of a rheumatologist, which is why I'm not hiring her."

Wilson blinks. "But she's…smart. And…articulate. And other useful things. What the hell is wrong with her?"

"It's such a silly specialty," House says with a shrug. "And aside from her rather impressive backside—"

"And front side," Wilson mutters.

"—she's _boring_." House glares at him. "Boring on paper, boring in person. How'd she ever make it past your screening process? You do _have_ a screening process, right? Or are you allowing any monkey who can type up a CV in here?"

"They have to have gone to med school, too, or at least lied very convincingly about it," Wilson says absently, then sighs in exasperation. "If you already knew you weren't going to hire her, why'd you even bother calling her in for an interview?"

House gives him a withering look. "Her name is Ulla Svenson, for chrissakes. _Ulla_. I've seen _The Producers_. Why do you _think_ I called her in?"

"Ulla dance," Wilson agrees wistfully.

"If she'd danced," House says, "I _would_ have hired her."

Wednesday's interview never even gets there.

"This one looks good," Wilson says, an hour before the interviewee is scheduled to arrive, tossing the file over to House. "Sloan-Kettering for his residency, not too shabby, and high praise from Thurgood, who's almost as much of a sociopath as you are, so good match there."

House gives the file a desultory once-over. "Specialty?"

"Radiation oncology, looking to branch out a bit—"

House tips it into his trash can without a second glance. "It's never cancer."

"It's _often_ cancer, actually."

House snorts. "Yes, if we're going by a very special definition of 'often', and I mean 'special' in the sense of 'special ed' or 'special Olympics' or—"

"It's...occasionally cancer."

"Besides," House says, "I've already got one oncologist, another would seem flagrantly overindulgent."

Wilson refrains from pointing out that he's not actually _on_ House's staff, because honestly, he does wonder sometimes.

He calls the radiation oncologist and cancels the interview.

Thursday's interview comes equipped with a fantastic CV, glowing references, drool-worthy credentials, a refreshing sense of sarcasm, and one of the thickest Indian accents this side of New Delhi.

Once again, Wilson is left to conduct the interview more or less on his own, as House is too busy listening to the guy with a frightening degree of awe.

Wilson has a very, very bad feeling about this.

Eventually, the interview wraps itself up and Bombay Man leaves with a cocky little wave. House salutes him. Wilson fears for the future of the medical world.

"He's _perfect_," House says, eyes shining with the sort of glee that would make any sane man immediately run for the hills. Wilson is not always as sane as he'd like to be, though, so he braces himself and sticks it out. "Did you _hear_ him?"

"Yes," Wilson says, "I did. I like to think I even understood one word in five. House, no."

"Wilson, yes," House insists. If this is House's happy face, Wilson prays he'll never see it again. "He will talk to all my patients for me, and I will never again have anyone go screeching to Cuddy about ethics because no one will ever understand what treatments they're authorizing, and it will be _beautiful_."

"His specialty is nephrology," Wilson tries. "Same as _yours_. How could you possibly need two nephrologists?"

House barely even seems to hear him. "Maybe he could talk to Cuddy for me, too. And to you. He could be…my _bridge_ to humanity. I refuse to speak another word unless I can have it mangled by Dr. Delhi."

Wilson casts his gaze heavenward. God does not oblige him with a nice big lightning bolt to House's skull. "Dr. _Gupta_. His father's a lawyer, you know. If you subject Kumar to half the racism Foreman had to deal with, this hospital will go under in less than three months."

House looks positively blissful. "His name is _Kumar_. He's so hired."

No good can come of this, Wilson thinks, and tries very hard not to weep.

Friday's interview is a classic butch lesbian, from her very short haircut to her hard-as-nails gaze to her spiky choker to her almost definitely absent bra. She's also an intelligent, capable, no-nonsense sort of doctor, which Wilson thinks would be a very strong asset in the unending battle against House's ego.

House seems to be taking assiduous notes during the interview, which fills Wilson with probably misplaced hope. When he manages to glance over, sure enough, he finds that House's notepad is playing host to some surprisingly well-rendered illustrations of the interviewee and Cuddy in a number of very imaginative sexual positions.

There is no God, Wilson decides bleakly.

"So, Ms. Wolcott," House says mildly, "you must have heard that my medical decisions often appear unorthodox, and frequently land myself and my team in, ah, _consultations_ with the hospital bigwigs. What _position_ do you see yourself taking in relation to our Dean of Medicine?"

Wilson blanches and rushes the poor woman through the rest of the interview as quickly as possible.

Once she's gone, dignity at least somewhat intact, Wilson slumps in his chair and rests his head in his hands. "I give up," he mumbles.

"Don't be silly," House says cheerfully. "I think I'm getting to like the hiring process. I get to meet all kinds of new and exciting people."

"You get to _humiliate_ all kinds of new people," Wilson corrects him, looking up. "I thought your patients provided sufficient entertainment for you."

"Also you," House says, eyes glinting maniacally. "I thought you were going to have an aneurysm. Next time, warn me so I can get the popcorn ready."

"You could at least _pretend _to take this seriously," Wilson says. "Because right now, you're just wasting _your_ time and more importantly _mine_."

"You're the one who was so insistent that I hire a new team," House shoots back. "You want me to or not? I'll take Dr. Delhi, Dr. Ulla, and Dr. Dyke. Especially if Dr. Dyke and Dr. Ulla will do unspeakable things in my glass office."

Wilson massages his temples. "It's no good hiring people just so you can torment them, House. They'll quit within weeks and then you'll put me through this hell all over again."

"So don't sit in on the interviews!"

"I don't even want to _consider_ what you'd do to them without adult supervision," Wilson groans. "And if I didn't start out in the interview, you'd come up with a thousand and one terrifyingly creative ways to get me in for a consult anyway."

House waggles his eyebrows. "What can I say? You give good consult."

"I give _excellent_ consult, I'll have you know, and that's nowhere near the limit of my euphemistic prowess. But that's beside the point." Wilson glances over. "What's so funny?"

"I knew there was a reason I kept you around," House says, with a strange little half-smile. Wilson wonders if he should feel touched or fear for his life. "So who's up next?"

Wilson sighs, but pulls out the stack of CVs again anyway. After all, it's not like he has anything better to do, like, say, _run a department_.

But House looks happier than he has since the antidepressant incident, and that's got to be worth something, right?

Monday's interview wears thick horn-rimmed glasses and a pocket protector. He and Wilson are a match made in heaven, House suggests, and Wilson doesn't punch him in the face, which he feels is a manly demonstration of restraint. It's as good a way as any to start off the week.


End file.
